


132 - Buskers, Get Gone /Get Happy, & Opening Acts

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 10:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17405543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “the reader busking in a town and she sings catb songs and she’s really good and Van sees her and think she’s really good at singing and playing guitar and he joins her. Then he starts to fall for her and they always sing on the street together and he takes her touring with her and brings her on stage to sing with him sometimes” and “a fic where the reader is opening up for catfish and over time grows a relationship with van cuz they’re like touring together n stuff??”





	132 - Buskers, Get Gone /Get Happy, & Opening Acts

You don't remember how the CD found its way into the rest, but you owned a demo of some band called Catfish and the Bottlemen. One Sunday afternoon, alone in the house and all out of inspiration, you found it between One Hot Minute and Black Market Music. You held it up and read the unevenly cut piece of paper. It didn’t say much. You put the disk in the player and laid back on the floorboards.

The music was badly recorded but it was full of heart. The lyrics were catchy and you liked how unpretentious they were. Melodies of potential, and rises and falls that begged to be heard live. You started to listen to it daily, and after teaching yourself the chords to a couple of the songs you began to incorporate them into your busking.

It wasn't those songs that caught the attention of a boy in ripped up jeans and a dirty leather jacket; it was your cover of Crazy Love. He was walking through the park and recognised the notes. You didn't see him approach but smiled when he stood in front of you. A few people walked past, dropping loose change and notes into your guitar case. You nodded at each of them as you sung. The boy though, stood motionless apart from his hand lifting a cigarette to his lips every now and then. When the song was over, he clapped.

"Thanks," you said, your voice coming out quieter than you meant it to. 

"You're very good. I'd give you all my money but I really don't have a penny on me," he replied, patting his pockets in illustration.

"That's okay. Happy just to have an audience," you told him, shrugging. He nodded and grinned.

"Do ya want a smoke?" he offered, holding the pack to you over your guitar case. You shook your head. 

"Bad for the voice,"

He chuckled and nodded. "Yeah… I should probably quit… Anyway. Just wanted to say that you're real good. Van Morrison is one of my favourites,"

"Yeah. Me too." You didn't know what he really wanted because if it was to say that you were good, he'd already done that twice. You bit your lip, and your eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "Did you want something else… or should I keep playing?"

"Sorry! Yeah. Keep going," he replied quickly, taking a step back. "I'm gonna…" and he pointed down the path. You nodded and watched him walk away.

…

A week later, the boy in the ripped up jeans was back. He came walking over like it was the only reason he was in the park, not like he was just walking through. He listened to you sing Dear Prudence and a dreamy version of The Drugs Don't Work from a bench seat. He walked over and dropped a twenty pound note in your case.

"For the other day, and today," he said.

"You sure you don't want to use it to buy some clothes without holes in them?" you asked. His striped sweater was missing material over the elbows, and you could see the sharpness of his collarbones through the rips. He laughed.

"Nah, this is my style," he said, brushing non-existent dust from his shoulders. You grinned.

"Thank you,"

"You're very welcome. I'm Van, by the way," he said.

"Van? If you're gonna use a fake name you should probably not go with one so obvious,"

"What? That's my real name!"

"Van?"

"Yeah, well, nah, like, Van is short for my middle name - Evan,"

"Van Morrison's real name wasn't Van either,"

"Yeah. I know. My ma wouldn't let my dad name me Van, 'cause my last name is McCann, so…"

"Van McCann would be stupid,"

"Yeah," he laughed.

"But you go by it anyway?" you asked, laughing. He nodded with a wide grin. "What's your first name?"

"Ryan,"

"Ryan? Ryan Evan McCann, huh? Nice to meet you,"

"We gonna tear apart your name now?"

"No. I'm Y/N,"

"Y/N? That's all I'm getting?"

You nodded and pushed him back with one finger on his chest. You started up another song before he could say anything. You watched him walk away with a grin.

…

Another seven days later you woke up to see a torrential down-pouring of rain outside your bedroom window. No busking, then. You still wanted to leave the house, so you went to the café across from where you usually spent the afternoons earning a little extra cash. You were working on lyrics and drinking a turmeric latte when a car's breaks outside screeched, drawing your attention to the window. Past the road, you saw someone walking through the park. Black clothes, lanky legs. You watched Van quickly establish you were not there, and just as quickly run off back down the path. You stood in reaction, went to do something, but he was gone and the rain was heavy.

You spent hours in the café writing about love.

…

When you got to the park the next time, Van was already there.

"Wanted a good seat," he said as you started to set up. You smiled, blushed, and began to play.

The words you sang were slower than that on the Catfish CD you had at home. The melody was calmer too. "She lights her cigarette in my face and says 'Let's get good and lost for a while, 'cause I can't stand the people 'round here.'" The park was packed; it was only the second day without rain in a week. In fear of losing the sun, people were out and about. It meant your attention was divided between the members of your audience. You were definitely going to make enough to make up for missing the previous week.

Only when the song was almost over did you look back over at Van on his park bench. "Get gone, get happyyyyyyyy," you sang to him. What was that emotion on his face? His eyes were bright and his mouth was open in… shock? Awe? Love? He sat for an entire hour watching you play, only when you'd packed up your guitar and stood up straight did he walk over.

"Are you okay? Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked him.

"The first song. Where'd you hear it?"

"Ummmm… Oh. It's called Bodies. It's off this band's demo CD I found. I don't even remember where I got it. I'm just super obsessed with it though. I can make you a copy?"

Van grinned. "Probably don't need another copy," he replied. You nodded before you processed the 'another.' Your head snapped up to his.

"You know them?"

"Catfish and the Bottlemen. Yeah,"

"Do you know anything about them? There's a website written on the booklet thing, but-"

"But it don't work? Yeah. We're working on that," he laughed and shrugged. You watched him kick at a rock on the ground, before looking back up at you with a sly smirk. His nose crinkled in amusement. "You played my song,"

"You're…"

"Don't think I've met anyone that proper likes us, you know? Like, all the people that come to the shows are just our mates, and their mates. But you… And, you do it better? Make it sound like an actual tune, you know? But you owe me royalties."

Of course he was in a band.

You breathed out and looked at him for a moment. He smiled and it was warm and beautiful. "Here," you said and handed him your guitar case. He took it without question and followed you down the park path when you walked off.

"Where we going?" he asked. You looked over your shoulder at him.

"I owe you, yeah? I'll buy you a drink. Then we'll be even," you told him. He skipped a few steps to walk by your side. He was trying to contain a wide grin.

"Sounds good."

…

Van was all flirty words and winking eyes, but he was also weirdly traditional. You thought after the drink he might kiss you, but he didn't. When you swapped numbers and went to a Catfish show, he still didn't. You reasoned that maybe he just didn't like you like that; that it was always the music he loved. His friendship was enough though. You wasted hours listening to records with him, and you workshopped original songs together. You had a pillow fight to determine who had ownership of a lyric that was co-written. In the end, you split it. He got to keep the word 'simpatico' but you got the original line it was written into.

You were watching Catfish practice for their tour. Somehow, they managed to book some shows around the place, and they were hoping it would be enough to get noticed by a label. You hoped so too. You'd spent days helping them copy CDs and mail them off.

"We need to find a band that is shitter than us to open. So, we look good," Benji said. Everyone laughed.

"Or… someone that does different stuff, calmer, so when we come out everyone is ready to lose it, you know?" Van replied. He looked over at you, and you knew he meant you.

"No," you said immediately.

"Why not?!" he asked.

"Not a bad idea, mate. You're good, so people will listen, but all their energy will be saved for us," Larry agreed.

"No," you repeated.

"And we don't have to waste time finding anyone else," Benji added nodding.

"I'm disturbed at the lack of acceptance of the word 'no' in the room,"

"Don't have to hang out with anyone else," Bob said from somewhere behind his drum kit. He was on the floor tightening a bolt.

"It's settled then. Y/N. You're opening for us,"

"Yeah, no, guys, you're all very sweet, but I'm actually just too good for your shitty guitar rock, so… I'm gonna pass.”

You didn’t though. You piled your minimal equipment into the back of their second-hand van and pretended to not be excited about it all.

…

You were due to play in ten minutes, and walking through the dirty bar you were having second and third and fourth thoughts. The people that had come to see Catfish wore dark jeans and band shirts. They didn't look like the type to enjoy a girl in a white lace dress singing all dreamy and slow. Van noticed your nervousness and wrapped you up in his arms.

"You got this, Y/N," he whispered. You nodded into his frame, holding him tight. "Even if they don't like ya, worst that will happen is they'll not listen. They ain't gonna ditch a beer bottle at you like they do with me,"

"I know you're trying to be reassuring, but…"

"Sorry. You're good. Your music is good. You have got this," he repeated.

Van was right, they mostly just didn't listen. After the third song though, your swaying hips and moody blues got them. People started to watch you, and you could see them imagining themselves in your lyrics. They got that spacey look on their face, and their arms started to snake around each other, in love with the music and the moment. When you finished, they clapped, genuinely impressed.

In the tiny space that had a dual purpose of holding stock and being a green room, you fell into Van's arms. "I fucking told ya!" he said, never having doubted you.

You stood close by the stage as they performed. Van thrashed about, and the reactions of the crowd were violent and visceral; all Catfish needed was one shot in front of a label and they'd be signed. You were sure.

"Next song's on the little CD you can buy from Larry over there," Van said, pointing to where Larry was sitting on a table. "Gonna get our beautiful friend Y/N to come help me sing it, yeah," he continued. He looked over at you, and you shook your head. "This one's called Bodies." They started to play and you shook your head again. Then, Larry was behind you pushing you up on stage. People cheered, and you leant against the microphone stand on stage. Van danced around you and you watched him with a grin.

"She lights her cigarette in my face and says," he sung and took a step back. You knew what you had to do.

"Let's get good and lost for a while, 'cause I can't stand the people 'round here," you sang back at him.

"And I'm sick of turnin' up and people sayin',"

"You've gotta leave, you should not… be… here…"

You took turns singing the lines, sharing the mic. Van changed the lyrics, then. "The things that I do just to get you out of that white lace dresssssss, 'cause it loves my floor," he sang with a wink.

You rolled your eyes and countered with, "Please get me away from him, 'cause he's starting to do my head right in."

The rest of the song was a mess of laughter and missed guitar notes. "Get gone! Get happy!" the whole band yelled, and the crowd learned fast and sung it back too. The room became one living creature that existed purely to listen to music and experience joy as dished out by you and Van.

…

At every show you sang Bodies with them, and it had the same effect. Getting noticed by music magazines and record labels became a secondary goal; making people lose their absolute shit to that song was the main objective. The purity of that was what would inevitably lead to Catfish's popularity; they aimed to make people happy. Simple.

Every time you sang with Van, on stage or off, you could feel your love for him grow and grow. It hurt. Unrequited love was a fucking nightmare. You thought maybe you should just straight up ask Van how he felt, in case you missed a signal or something. Then, you thought maybe you should talk to Larry about it. In the end, you left it alone. Don't ruin a good thing, you told yourself.

After the final show, in which Van made you hold his guitar and he played it while wrapped around you, you climbed onto the tour van's roof and spread out. The night was unseasonably warm and it was the biggest crowd Catfish had pulled thus far. It was a perfect show, and you needed a moment to absorb all of it before returning to your other everyday life.

You didn't need to open your eyes to know who it was climbing on top of the van. Van curled up next to you and rested his sweaty head on your stomach.

"Thank you," you said.

"You're welcome… For what?"

"Bringing me on tour. Watching me in the park. Writing good songs. I don't know. All of it. Existing," you tried to explain but really couldn't. Van turned and kissed your body over your clothes.

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" he replied sitting up.

"Bad,"

"You can never open for us again," he said. His face was almost emotionless, except for a small smirk on his lips. You could feel a frown on yours though.

"Why?"

"Guess 'cause of the good news, really," he said. For a split second you thought maybe they'd been signed or something, but if that were the case you would have heard his screaming from a mile away. It wasn't that, then.

"Which is?" you asked.

"I'm like, dead in love with you. Be really unprofessional to date our opening act, you know? Tryin' to build a reputable thing here, Y/N, so you've got to fuck off. Sorry," he grinned. You laughed before letting the weight of the meaning of the words settle in your heart. 

"Did you just tell me to fuck off?"

"Yeah, but like, in a nice way, innit,"

"Oh my god. Van. You're a fucking idiot," you said.

"But you love me too, yeah?"

He knew the answer without having to really ask the question. You shook your head no, and he grinned, leant down and kissed you. And of course, you kissed back.


End file.
